


Silver Naruko In Scarlet Jewellery

by Itachi_S_Lucius



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1950s, Arranged Marriage, F/M, Female Uzumaki Naruto, Feminist Themes, Self-Discovery, Teen Pregnancy, Temporary ItaNaru, Traditional Ideals, Unplanned Pregnancy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-03
Packaged: 2020-10-06 08:24:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,285
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20503877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Itachi_S_Lucius/pseuds/Itachi_S_Lucius
Summary: Beset with a traditional mind a young woman named Naruko is forced into an arranged marriage. And in attempting to make the best she might under a horrid circumstance, she finds herself in yet another horrible situation. However, with her husband unwilling she chooses instead to make a change.Even if the year is 1954 and that is rather difficult for those of her gender.





	Silver Naruko In Scarlet Jewellery

**Author's Note:**

> Okay! So everyone, new one out, I know, I know, I'm awful. But! Its not a MadaNaru so be glad of that! *Cries* Oh and 1st POV *ugh*
> 
> Please, please, don't assume all chapters will be this goddamn long. This was going to be a one-shot originally
> 
> BE AWARE: Naruko's mindset does change, this is a story of self-discovery and feminist ideals. If you are a sexist misogynist bastard you shouldn't read any of my shit anyway, and you will HATE this fanfic.
> 
> Notice of Warning(s): Rating Might Change. Female Naruto (Naruko). Traditional Ideals.
> 
> SHIPS: Temporary ItaNaru, Turns into KakaNaru
> 
> Timeline: Married in 1937 (Kushina and Minato), Born in 1938 (Naruko), Married in 1954 (Naruko is 16)

Gaiety, or what little I can on occasion find, is not a word I may use as a description this day.

This day is a special one of celebration: To all about me with the exception of myself. My Mother is festive with her hair done high in a fine knot of heated curls done-up with freshened daffodils. Further, adding to her beauty today, she is in a formal dress with matching needle heals so hardly worn.

Even more unusual- as I have been made well aware, my mother seldom wears earrings, as they redden her ears -she proclaims this in jest often,- it is a rarity to see her in anything but her golden wedding band and platinum and diamond set engagement ring. However, this morn she dawns her pair of gifted ruby embedded teardrop earrings. -which may have been made and bought fake, _though as they were gifts from her kindest friend I do think that assumption unlikely_.- while they are certainly beautiful, I do think they clash with all the red tones she has on. That is very much including the continuous smile from her wine painted lips.

Of course, -as expected- her scarlet toned hair clashes with her long, flaring ball skirt of daffodil yellow, as it would- and does, with anything she may wear. Though naturally, I acknowledge, there is nothing to be done about the glaring look; as her hair tone -which does almost imitate an apple,- is a born colour, and one I wish to have inherited near daily.

Mother always bore upon her the very fashioned 'smile effect' of the modern woman. Yet, hardly ever departing from the forties' appearance with the so-made red toned lip. For her, a darkened wine or garnet shade kept her lips separate from the brightened hair she had been blessed with in birth. As usual, she wore nothing upon her eyes save from the so now common 'cat-eye' eyeliner. After all, she was a woman who had been heavily influenced by the war rationing when I had been just a mere child. Thus, she carried the opinion that not much was needed to make one presentable.

Although I may seem condescending in my depiction of her; none -even I in my anger- can ignore her beauty. None, and certainly not my Father, who is also lively this day -though it should be noted: there is hardly a day where he is not of cheerful spirit. He decides to spoil me and his wife on this special occasion as it is an important day for any woman -at least that is how it is described. Today does not seem one of merriment in my view, regardless that near the entire event revolves around me.

For this day though commonly seen as special to all my age, or indeed anyone of kind disposition: Is not to me.

For this afternoon, it has been decided that I will be wed unto a man I do not wish to marry.

Make no mistake, the groom is a good gentleman who I have met many times. Who I can easily identify, if not as a friend, then at least a kind acquaintance.

However, neither he nor I have the wish to be married to each other. Both of us therein, have been in dread of the date November 20th, 1954, since we found what it entailed two years prior when I had been in but my fourteenth year, and he, merely one year from his twenties.

Many times I have attempted to convince my Father into removing the idea from his mind but, to no avail. Then I tried to talk my Mother out of the notion, which was more useless; as it had been her and Mrs. Uchiha's plan since childhood. -They held dear, a childhood sistership between them, and had maintained a malicious plan to unite their families through the use of their future offspring near since.- Neither of our Fathers had found reason warranting disapproval when presented with the idea; as they had been _actual_ brothers-in-arms during the war effort a decade -or so- previous.

Unexpectedly, I find myself chauffeured to my communal church in Itachi's - that is: my future husband's, handsome and quite modern car. Surprisingly, it was Mother who told both me and Father what make it was, apparently she had an uncommon passion for car makes, and told that this, in particular, was a Buick with the name of a Roadmaster. Upon it a folded cloth hood of white, with a painting of brightened, blaring, red, and of course, white wheels. In accordance with Father's tellings, it had been a planned transport by Itachi for the sake of showcasing respect onto his Fiancee. Though it went unsaid, I did appreciate the effort he had made in making me more comfortable with the unwelcome yet mandatory affair.

Despite the comfort presented in the sweet nature of my future spouse, my mind still chooses to bare a hatred for me. Before we could even reach the turning point my head had been swept with a bitter panic in the form of ire and more visual despair. Not coming as tears to my luck, but rather an expression, cast over the traffic and people roaming the walkway, an express which my Mother took note of fastly as only a Mother may.

Her voice came to me in a mixture of concerned sweetened joy. "Naruko? What's wrong?" A question rightful in its confusion; for as even in my begging a year ago for amnesty. I had never stated it to be for the arrangement in particular; only that she free me from the contract so that I may find a lover of my own, rather then have it be an obligation. She is a woman raised to traditional values and customs, she wouldn't understand my unwillingness to a marriage made, rather then chosen. Especially as Itachi is a man I've known since my braided days, and who is fortunate enough to come from a wealthy, indeed well-meaning family of faith, in addition, he also happened to be in good health, sound mind, and a handsome make. I know this well myself, yet, this made me no more glad to be wedding him, no matter my good fortune.

_'Personal opinions put aside;'_ as my Mother so sought to tell me frequently, in regard to my often bad temperament. To myself, I added upon her quotation: _'**I will be marrying this day.' **_An unnecessary additive, as once more, she seeks to remind me of this truth by use of the same phrase. Ignoring that I am presently sitting desolate within Itachi's locomotive, now awaiting arrival to the church wherein my precious freedom is to be ruined by a choice I have not made.

In this mindset of self-depression, I find myself pondering: '_Is there any girl of my age or maturity who would wish for such a fate put upon her?' _Even in my imaginings, I cannot seem to think of a single example for which to comfort myself.

Realizing I have yet to truly answer my Mother's quandary -despite her callous reminder of my irrelevant opinion.- I must still answer her before Father sees fit to box my ears. "No Mumma, just cold-feet." I offer as a reasoning for my visual repression.

She takes it in kind and in turn, presents forth a familiar smile, one which she wore upon my first school day. Prideful in description, saddened in expression, an odd combination I'm sure I will never completely understand. "I understand sweetheart, but Itachi is such a gentleman I'm certain you will love him in merely a season of marriage. You'll see! Once the spring season begins there will be many envelopes in my and your Father's post, all boasting from you and your husband of how joyous you are!"

While it was said in kind, it was difficult not to notice the well-hidden expectation within.

* * *

We arrived with a kindred reception, that is, my future in-laws who came in greeting. Mr. Uchiha appearing to have a challenge in conforming his face into smiling, I imagine that is due at least in part to his mustache missing; therein he only managed to sculpt upon himself an attempted simper, rather pathetic in comparison to his wife's, and indeed, either his sons's -that is whenever his youngest should ever desire to show happiness as normal human might. A capacity I do not think he has, friendship shared or not.-

"Good ride?" My future-mother-in-law makes a jest of the situation, likely because I still wear an expression of complete anguish. Given the opportunity by us having arrived in her eldest's car, rather then my Father's own. As my Mother, she bears a dress of pale yellow- as I had chosen for the theme petticoat and all, giggling upon witnessing her sister of childhood struggling with her large ball skirt. "Are you that unaccustomed to a petticoat Kushina?" She questions while fighting unbecoming, indeed, unladylike laughter. Mockery aside, she is quite right in her assertion, Mother simply does not wear the modern petti, often merely bearing upon her a stealth dress, and if possible, one with polka dots when leaving the house. Which is why presently her skirt is stuck to the doorframe of the car.

"Quiet Mikoto! Minato some help?" A mere flash of her sparkling blue irises had me considering a brawl may begin, here, on the church entranceway in full viewing of Mother Mary!

Instead of Father aiding, Mikoto went instead, while I refrained from making an envious statement of her beauty overstating my own. He was, after all quite accustomed to Mother shouting out over useless and petty things of real no concern.

While Mikoto went to go aid her partner in crime, without the consent from either lady, their opposing appearances bore before me in clear -colour- contrast. Put in the most simplistic of terms: my Mother has a brightened pigmentation such as a redhaired Irish model, which greatly opposes her chosen sister's gothic and ethereal beauty; Mrs. Uchiha bares the colours of a blue-black hair tone, ivory skin -which did indeed match my mother's own,- and eyes which are legitimately a brown so endarkened they appeared nary crimson in direct sunlight -much as her husband's in fact.

Mr. Uchiha does appearers quite dull when beside his wife, however, when put near my Father, he may as well be a shadow of the wall! I do still see him, clearly, but he is plain in comparison to each of us gathered. Nye, he could be described best as; most average.

My Father, of course, is an alit man, most people do lose their lustre when in proximity to his natural shine. It is by his inheritance that I gained most of my own colouring. I have yet to decide if this should be seen as a blessing or a curse. Perhaps though, if I am of good fortune -as mother so insists I am,- I will have gained my father's delightful manner and charm -in the feminine form of course.

In brief most summary: my Father is a warm gentleman of both personality and appearance, and thus many would say, -indeed many have,- that he appears: _as if the sun were made a man_. Perhaps under that standard, I should describe myself in the same manner; 'as if the sun were made a woman.' Alas, my ego is not that heightened, and my modesty not so slight.

Yet still, it remains a pleasant thought.

Continuing on with my Father as the topic at hand: his description is both complex and simple, he is a natural-born oxymoron of divided characters. I shall start upon his gentle mien; my Father was made with a giving personality, his heart is full and he presents this in a frequent display of helping all he may come across who are needful. By this conduct; he makes many willful acquaintanceships he cannot now recall. Always he has a brightened smile made true by his continued joviality- never feigned, and a hidden humour kept behind the eyes. -Analogous to this, Mother has something behind the irises as well, though what she carries is a mischievous spirit, rather then anything so gay as Fathers jocose levity.

-Although… I do think it should be considered, he is a man of true faith; a man carried by his bible. Thusly, all beliefs he holds to scarid form are those shared by his local parish, pastor, and divine Pope in governance.-

Simplistic is his warm appearance. He and I are tan, indeed so far darkened is our skin that I have overheard it described as an enrichened caramel. We also share the same hair tone, and near the same eye colour, we both have a sunflower blond(e) made emboldened by our skin.

Our eyes both similarly contrast with our dark tones, yet stand light even amongst our alighted colours, for they were made outstanding as spotlights ingrained into our faces. Though mine is a slight bit different from my Father's arctic ice blue. For mine are made of ice around the pupil only, then my Mother's indigo blue was made lightened into a sapphire shade instead and formed as a ring _around_ my irises.

As for the figures of our hair, those do vary quite largely. Here, an admittance must be made, for though it has been kept quite secret by all aware: Father holds some African-American heritage, only a quarter or so, but enough to affect our appearances. I do not mind so much, as neither of us is very dark in make, thusly, we have never been made the recipient of a racial comment. This, is why my Father had static, tight, curls, and I? A head of waved hair; in a mixture of my matriarch's straightened red and patriarch's sungold -which nearly stood up in its static form.-

A soft-spoken, high-pitched, voice with concerned undertone then speaks near my ear under my distracted state: "Naruko? Are you quite well dear? You look rather ill." I hadn't so much as taken notice of Mikoto beside me.

I presume she must have already freed her friend from the car's hellish trappings.

Honestly, Mikoto is such a fine woman I have sometimes wondered why the lord hadn't granted her as my mother in the stead of Kushina Uzumaki -though I do love my mother very much, we do have a complicated relationship for mother and daughter.-

I gave a response as kindly as I might, lest while undertaken by such unwomanly duress. "Oh fine Mrs. Uchiha, just fine, cold feet is all." As a showing of this, I give her a small smile for comfort. After all, the last thing I should want is for her to think of me as an unwilling bride. The gentle lady my think I find her son unsuitable or ungentlemanly by that mindset. Continuing on, in a hope not to ungracefully say something of discord, I ask: "Will you and mother be styling my hair and readying me?"

Currently, I merely don a most simple circle unpettied dress of bubblegum pink, a colour unsuited to me by all degrees of standard; meant as a small snub onto my mother this morn.

Yet, it remained no different then the victory I had in the -delightful- fact: I had near completely designed my own wedding. Therefore, all opportunity was presented to me for spiteful inclination unto my -and indeed, Itachi's- parentage for the arrangement. Perhaps it is less a joyful celebration of my win over cruelty. ,then forced upon our parents', ugly suits unhandsome upon our fathers' slim figures, and ostentatious colours onto our mothers unbefitting their nature-given tones.

Either way, I received a response to my earlier presented question from my future-in-law. She, very unaware as to my nefarious thoughts came to pat my shoulder as only a nice woman would. "Well of course sweet dear, who else is there for such a task?" My mother did not possess -nor could she ever harbour, the same grace of language as Mrs. Uchiha, and here I once more ponder upon their acclaimed sisterhood.

Even as I am escorted into the open grand doorway for last time, as an unmarried girl, indeed, enter last as a girl at all.

For next Sunday, I am certain I shall be a woman upon mine entry and upon my exit.

Next time I come to church, I must question: "_Will I pertain my innocence?"_

* * *

I am taken into a small dressing chamber made for the direct purpose of prepping expectant brides: This truth I mark for myself as both my mother and her sister of un-relation seem to take a reverence upon entry that can only be found when one is in the grasping of familiarity. Therein, they had been here before, I am to guess twice each, as for each other's wedding preparations surely neither would miss the opportunity to have their sister as a bridesmaid.

As it appeared the entire room had been made ready for our arrivial, I imagine by the sweet little altar boy I have seen running about before. On the desk, a brush, comb, pins, and even my simplistic flower lace veil pin-on, thereon are also my white lilies and reddened silvas for my bouquet. I do somehow manage to spot the velvet boxes, for both my necklace and matching earrings just behind the petals of the fresh flowers.

On the hanger on the wall was my grand gown, I felt an excitement mount merely at the sight, regardless of the symptoms in this ill circumstance, I am still a human, and when the view of that gorgeous dress greets me I must be happy upon the thought of wearing it. This feeling has me half-way between happiness and oppression, as my mother slaps her face to her palm, loud enough that the few guests we have could hear it.

This does not affect me under the expectation I had, having awaited a similar action:

I adore the colour orange you see, therefore; any shade it may be presented to me I will hold the same regard unto.

Thusly: That is why my wedding gown hung there, dyed in a shade of pinkened-peach orange. Only softened from ostentation by the cream lacey trimmings scattered around the flaring A-shaped skirt, and making up most of the torso. Presently it could hardly be less traditional, yet still, there is the over-shoulder neckline. It had -naturally- been tailored by the charity of the Uchiha's pockets as all of the wedding ceremony -and reception had been. I do imagine their generosity is- was, fulled by a slight stinging of guilt which they dare not bare not display to nay any but those of blood relation.

Peaking upon my reiving of the gown in full showing, Mikoto takes to giggling as she begins to scurry about, in the manner most common for a housewife.

Understand: I have known since a very young -impressionable- age, far before the announcing of my engagement to Itachi. That I would, indeed am expected; to follow the same path as Mrs. Mikoto and my own mother. Father had frequently said as much, with a kindred tone of voice made softened for the sake of children that: '_-is simply what a good-natured lady does.' _I do not, even now, think he meant an insult. I believe it had been an education, a lesson without a blackboard. After all, he loves me very much as only a father might, he would never incline me onto a path of cruel obedience without reason, and neither would mother.

By this exact teaching, I have the sternly held belief: a woman's place is in the home caring for her husband and children. In the many years since that belief has never been shifted. Though that may be perhaps of my Catholic education who has given me the same instruction. I attend an all-girl Catholic Academy, so they may show some sort of bias I suppose.

Lady Mikoto offers to have my hair done first by her hand, while my mother sees to my face. I accept her kindly made offering, and sit down somewhat apathetically in the plush desk chair provided for me in front of the mirror. Awaiting nimble fingers to begin pulling at my hair, and for mother's quick hands to start rummaging in her make-up box.

I look haggard, I must notice. There are darkened circles underneath my eyes formed from my inability to sleep in recent nights. Slight lines at my jowl even from my common-made frowning in the past few days. Additionally, my hair is tangled at the ends and unstyled, my eyes are also marginally reddened from the crying in the car, doubtless taking attention away from the black rings undereye… In the worst possible way! I would be made more welcome in a slum then a church. My symmetrical facial scars of three lines parallelly formed don't help in my presentation of supposed elegance either.

It is nary possible for Mrs. Uchiha and mother to make me orderly before the ceremony is to begin- which is only an hour or so away.

Putting a worry onto my mind; Itachi hates tardy people.

They begin.

Mikoto starts with the brush and comb: first using the former to tackle the tangles, then the latter in soothing the angered static hair into some form of compliance. Disbelief strikes me now, as I have never seen Mikoto Uchiha bare a scowl before, but upon her; from the vision made by the aidful mirror, I can see one. Though to that my thoughts wander in self-shame: '_is it a scornful mirror? Displaying unto me this grim visage of myself.'_

Before Mother distracts me from mental damage by applying a tone exact concealer, along with its similar, anti-shine foundation.

A painful endeavour to be sure, as my hair is just below my breast it takes the raven-haired woman a grievously long-time to untangle it. All this while my mother tries dreadfully hard to rid me of my scars; to her, they are ugly -especially for a bride, and must be hidden as best as possible. I would find it an insult if it were not so commonly stated in the afternoons.

"For goodness sake Naruko! Couldn't you have prepared yourself a little before leaving the house?" The readymade scorn comes from my mother's red lips, no doubt, she had wanted to say as much before the car ride. Ever the fiery woman my father fell for, oftentimes -it seemed- at my expense. She puts down the brush to snatch my hand from my knee. "Oh good! At least you had your nails done." Her voice becomes more restful at this discovery, having found that they had been professionally done. As I had seen it necessary to make an appointment three days previous at my favourite salon for a manicure and painting. They had been done to trend; with an orange-red colour -which I adore- and squoval shaping. A look I am near certain my mother finds grotesque, as she does so hate orange.

As she holds my palm looking to my nails with the eye of a bomb-spotter, I notice the engagement ring upon mine fourth finger, sitting pleasant, as if not an omen. Though it is as beautiful as it is expensive. Made of white gold with floral engravements, beset with a beautiful square diamond at least one -perhaps two- carats large. I detest the thing, as I would a shackle, and there is no other comparison. I have been forced to wear it for two years, but only upon my middle finger for the sake of secrecy in school, however, it moves today onto my ring finger and will soon have a husband as company -as I will.

I do not want it to have a partner, it should be left alone to grovel for all of its days. As I am spiteful in thought, mother finds whatever she sought and drops my hand, going once more to her box.

Next assaulted is my hair pulled at the sides to the back. In the meanwhile of my mother beginning to apply a suitable eye shadow of a modest tone. Still, to my delight, it is a slightly shimmering bronze colour purposefully matching with my dress and which blends in with my skin. Further, she then carefully fills in my brow with a light brown pencil and then creates a winged look with the black eyeliner she holds. An impressive delicacy displayed which I have never before seen in her. This manner continued even as she made familiar jests with her sister beside, that is, she who now pulls at my scalp for the sake of bridal beauty.

To myself: '_How shall I feel when walking down the aisle.'_ I cerebrate privately. '_Certainly not joy, that is not possible. So then, depression? No, that is too sad, I must try to have some optimism. Melancholy? ' _I have to decline that too, I'm really not sure how I should be disposed while marrying a man whom I do not want to wed. Yet, shant I be grateful I at least know, and therein, like, the groom well enough? I find myself continuing to the answer is to simply have a mixture of both optimism and unwillingness. I am certain there is no wording for that.

Completely ignorant of my mentality, my two bridesmaids eagerly move forward with their dressage. Mother is now beginning to apply lipstick, a brightened red of ruby which stands in near contrast of the white lacing of my pinned veil and that embroidered upon my dress. Shockingly, I believe the decision to be one well made.

During the time wherein I had been swept away by my own wanderings, lady Mikoto has near finished my updo. Made to stand up nearly like that of a rebel greaser's, with a bun neatly tied to appear in curls at the back -which I see with the use of a hand mirror present to me by the same woman.- As her last step she pins upon the delicate veil piece at the front, near, but not on my bangs. Mother then opened in careful demeanour the velvet boxes: wherein sat one choker necklace of a slight gold chain, and centrepiece teardrop pearl. The smaller, a matching pair of golden hangers along with tear-shaped white pears. Placing the upon me with a large, prideful grin and kiss upon my forehead, as if I am a child. Even angered, irate and desolate in my situation, I must acknowledge now despite those all those occurring feelings: I do look beautiful.

It is something I do not often admit unto myself, not because I think I am ugly, or because I have no self-confidence. It is more the truth, that I have been living in a continual state of insouciance unto everything -including my own appearance- for the past two years in cognizance of my engagement. No one had known of this save myself. A fact I am glad for, as it would have driven many concerns and questioning.

We all then move; they to the dress hung, while I; put myself before the full-length mirror, and stare avidly at my reflection, now in a state of wonder. I have construed myself as pretty before, even beautiful should the mood strike me, but that had been many years prior now, perhaps even at the tender and innocent age of fourteen years when I had still been oblivious. In ignoring the circumstance of occurrence, I will say easily, it is nice to gaze upon myself and see something pulchritudinous, rather then arid.

I glance to mother, watching as she peaks to the clock with a worried expression upon her. Then, in seeing its reading, steals her face into something like iron, and nearly rips my dress in her haste. Unzipping the back at the speed I would imagine that comic character 'Flash,' could accomplish. Almost takes my leg with her arm as she lifts it in such a hurry, I choose to raise my second foot before she has the opportunity to reach it. My own safety is at stake after all. Mother can become a fearful devil if she so desires, and I do feel that now is such a time.

My gown is slipped upon me with that same haste. In the meanwhile, I gain a sympathy glance from Mrs. Uchiha, -who seems quite adapt to my mother's fearful moments,- before she goes to fetch the stiletto heels I have in a white to match the lace -and because they will scarcely be seen underneath my floor-length dress.

I am then turned to the side to be in full critical eye of my mother. Moments pass as I am evaluated, long ones which make me far more nervous then this entire wedding has.

Finally reaching a decision, or conclusion, she nods twice firmly -with a breathy snort after each,- then looks up to me with glittering eyes and a large smirk upon her. Then, in an action that I have not seen prior to now from my mother. She bangs her fist into her palm. Perhaps she learnt it from me, as I used to do that at thirteen and younger, but in my confused glance to lady Mikoto, she only smiles and rolls her eyes in affection. Obviously, it was an action she had seen many-a-time.

So befuddled am I, that I hardly manage to move my legs, as mother drags me from the room and thrusts my bouquet into my hand. Seemingly following her lead, Mrs. Uchiha kindly pushes me from behind.

Outside the warm, and comforting room of limited size. We meet with father then, and on him graces a delightful grin only he can make so easily. There, mother departs with a smile given quickly to her husband in a shared communication I cannot read. While Mikoto appears more sweetened towards me then the very woman who birthed me. Gifting onto me a small bejewelled bracelet of small pearls, and a gentle whisper into my ear in her ever softened voice: "Good luck."

It is such a welcomed sentiment; that it is _now _where I find myself beginning to tear once more. Rather then in the car whereon, I may blame the dust catching my eye. Here? Presently? I have no excuse. Seeing my apparent distress, father offers comfort.

"Naruko, sweetheart, I know you are afraid. Please, don't cry, I promise: Itachi is a good man to marry." This, I knew, he knows this himself, but I think it was all he could consider for a quick soothing. "I know you are a little young and I really did try to tell Kushina that, but your mother was quite adamant about everything-."

Before he can say anything more, I interrupt. Not with a mad tone, or with a childlike weeping, no, the exclamation I make is with the simple need for someone other then my groom to listen to my trial and therein, understand it. "I am only on '_vacation,' _by my school's standards Daddy! I have to go back next week!-" Here, he put both his hands to his hips -his grin already having fallen,- and began to stare at me in an honest, thoughtful, expression. "I am sixteen years old Daddy, but I'm still going moving into a new house today." Some fear I had hidden crept out when faced with my favourite parent in a compassionate mood.

After my ejaculation of emotion, he breathed so deeply that I can see his chest rise and fall in the sigh he lets out. Looking to the floor as he then says in a near whisper: "I know, I know." Then I find his eyes catching my own in earnest as he raises his head.

"Just- trust me Naruko, you can make this work, and I am certain that you will." His words are well-nigh as soft in tone as Mikoto's are normally. They feel, virtually empowering.

Again a smile filters upon him, though not his usual sunlit grin, and finishing the conversation, he stretches out his hand; as any 19th-century gentleman would.

I take it, but, only after giving out my last depressive sigh. Attempting now to be rid of all negative notions, and hold a positive attitude that I could do as my father says.

Before the doors father takes my elbow on his own and we both steal ourselves. Then, we both push the doors open.

We are greeted by the slight attendance standing and staring upon us.

In depicting our crowd as slight, I do mean that. For not many had been made aware- and thus, welcomed, to the wedding. I certainly hadn't wanted anyone from my school to know of my marriage, especially that it was to a man of largely known wealth. Nor had Itachi wanted any of his past school friends, or current friendships to know he was marrying a high schooler, the very same age as his younger brother.

Our guests consist of:

Of course, our parentage; Fugaku and Mikoto Uchiha, along with Minato and Kushina Uzumaki.

Only two sets of our grandparents; Itachi's paternal side, whose names -I think- are Kou and Naori Uchiha. My own, -who I barely know either- are from my maternal side, Ashina and Fuso Uzumaki.

Three of Itachi's uncles and one aunt -none of which do I know the names of.- My only uncle is also present, my mother's brother Nagato Uzumaki.

Beyond the family I recognize, there are very few persons whom I hardly can look to and see familiar aspects. Can now spot Hiruzen Sarutobi beside his son Asuma hid well in between my own family members somehow, who of which I have known many years and will always welcome the presence of.

Besides that, however, there are scarce few. I may know some from a brief visit to the house which I cannot recall at the present. Otherwise, they are all strangers to me. Friendships of my and Itachi's parents I am sure, invited despite the fact; I know none of them.

These: making a total of twenty or so guests in all.

Luckily there is one more man whom I can easily spot, even within a crowd of shrewd people. Sasuke Uchiha, Itachi's little brother, and a dear friend of mine. I can even say he holds a special place in my heart, though he is a fraction cold unto me, I know he at least considers me in the way of friendship. We have known each other since childhood, after all, and played house together; sometimes, I even indulged him by playing the game 'cop and bandit,' where we had switched roles and carried finger guns. Thinking of this does make me a bit nostalgic for whimsical days of frivolous gaiety.

Now he is standing far taller then me as Itachi's best man. Neutral in his normal stoic expression, serious at all times, regardless of what that time may be. As most men in his family, he refuses to cut his hair, and it is now standing all over -though I know he brushes it frequently,- it is unfortunate he didn't inherit his mother's straightened hair as his brother has. Though he normally wears a school uniform he does look different in a black suit and red bowtie, though he has abandoned the undervest expected of him. I meet his eye quite accidentally, while in a state of containing my laughter mocking his rebellious nature, and Sasuke glares at me in regular -and expected- conduct.

Yet, I still catch a glimpse of his small and briefly made simper, before turning my eyes to Itachi stood tall upon the alter, making towards me a sympathetic smile and baring compassionate, warmed-over eyes, which no Uchiha is meant to harbour so easily as he commonly does. As I have previously stated in nothing short of my most sincere candour: he is a true gentleman and has always been so.

Being escorted, I have my bouquet tightly trapped onto my breasts -and perhaps, indignantly, in between,- my father is shaking slightly. I notice everyone taking a seat, all baring smiles upon them. Mother wipes a tear with a hidden handkerchief she always has somewhere on her person. Some cigarette alit around the benches all from addicted smokers whom I presume to contain; Mr. Uchiha, Asuma, Hiruzen Sarutobi, and of course Naori Uchiha, she, I have seen smoking many times whenever she visits her son and daughter-in-law.

Taken again by whimsy, I now spot myself before the altar, my father embracing me as long he might prior to departing in reluctance. Presently, stretched in front of me is a pale hand, much as father's had been after his comforting and my melting. Now it is from my future husband as a companion to a new world -unwanted by both of us.

Yet still, I take it with a thankful smile as best I might make, and climb the stair with a heel dug into the gold-toned rug. The priest glancing between us in question of our adamancy to wed. Neither of us take to correcting the arrangement. It would do nothing for either of us, we are both aware of this.

The affair continues without my rapid attention. For all the while I am promising to myself:

'_I am Naruko Uzumaki, I can make this work.' _I am not certain if it is a true belief I hold or merely one of made in comfort.


End file.
